


lying about how brave you are

by fisherqueens



Category: Dead Space
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisherqueens/pseuds/fisherqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>isaac pitches, nate dodges, their cereal sucks. raisin bran survives mankind colonizing moons in space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lying about how brave you are

Isaac knows that Nate is awake by the telltale padding of his bare feet against the wooden floor. He’s perched carefully at the small bar in the kitchen, his heels pressing against the wooden supports and a small cup of coffee between his hands. The wisps slide upwards effortlessly into his face. Isaac doesn’t drink it, merely looks down into it, the way a soothsayer sees in the water. Like he’ll pull up the dregs of a prophecy from ground coffee beans and hot water and a splash of whole milk. In a way, Isaac has found himself in this place, mind rushing with the great beast made of atmosphere, starlight on his breath and in his whispers. 

He doesn’t understand if it’s his nose fucked up from too much time off-world or if it’s just his imagination--Nate always smells like O-Zone, like an on-coming storm, the sparks rising on the atmosphere, the kind that Isaac meets with his weathery eyes. Sparks and atmosphere.

He likes it. 

A lot. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, lifting the cup up to his lips, but not drinking. It’s just a bid to silence himself before something clumsy comes tumbling out of his mouth. He almost wouldn’t mind--Nate’s laughter, soft and benign is addictive and sometimes he reaches over to press his fingers into the vulnerable spots of him to hear him belt out something that makes him smile (most times, however, Nate doesn’t need the prodding--laughs like it comes naturally to him, as natural as breathing or blinking). Isaac is almost jealous. Nate’s laughter is like bells. His own comes sharp and loud like a gunshot ricocheting off metallic interiors. Rare, loud, but not offensively so. He tries, really.

Nate grins effortlessly ( _again_ \--fuck this guy) and Isaac licks his chapped lips like he wants to kiss him. 

He’s obliged almost immediately with a hand on the angle of his jaw, a thumb lingering under his ear while another hand pulls down his cup, fingers around his wrist. Nate pulls down his farce of drinking, their mouths pressing together easily. Isaac has relearned how to go slack when he’s kissed, how to buoy his emotions and push forward, leaning in and tipping his face like a plant towards the sun because that is simply how it feels. Nate is a warm, open-mouthed and lazy kisser and Isaac puts one foot in front of the other, walks, sprints, runs, crashes. It starts gentle, moves up and down slowly, lips pressing in on one another easily. 

Pulling away is a punishment, but Isaac’s mouth is awkwardly tender and he can hear the soft grumble of Nate’s stomach, meaning he ought to eat before they even consider doing anything else before hand. If they forget it now, it won’t be done until mid-afternoon.

Nate will complain and Isaac will tease.

He stares down into his coffee.

“Bad dreams,” Isaac says bluntly because ultimately, last night had been rough. It’s why he’s up so early. It’s a Saturday and he doesn’t have to work until Monday--the five day a week grind. He should still be asleep, as it’s only eight in the morning.

He likes the feel of ten o’clock on his face from the bed. 

Dreams are the elephant in the room.

Or the hulking Necromorph.

Or… the hallucination.

It’s in the room no matter what way you put it and bears down heavy and fast. They’re getting better at this, they dance easier around one another, they drink less, they touch more. But in this exchange, they have become one anothers dreamcatchers, things of feathers and string and bent boughs that catch one another when they fall down. 

“What about them?” Nate mumbles from behind the milk carton, pulling it up beyond his lips to drink straight from it before nudging the fridge shut with the jut of his hip and grabbing cereal from the cabinet. He makes a face.

Isaac likes Raisin Bran, Nate can bite him. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“I fucking hate this old man cereal.”

“You’re dodging.”

“You dodge,” Nate counters, pouring it into the bowl, the soft clinking of flakes hitting the surface soothingly almost. Isaac lets the words and noise linger in the air before sipping his coffee noisily. He lets Nate have that for the time being, watching as he pours milk into the cereal and holds the carton out to him afterwards.

Isaac tips his cup forward and lets Nate pour some milk into the newly made empty space. 

“They were just dreams,” he finally says, closing the lip of the milk and digging in with a funny face.

“We can talk about them,” Isaac says. “It’s okay.”

“God this cereal sucks.”

Isaac snorts rudely. 

“Don’t get offended, you think it sucks too.”

“It doesn’t suck. I like the raisins.”

“There are twenty million cereals in the store and you pick the shittiest one.”

“Well if I let you pick the fucking cereal then we end up with weird crap that tastes like fake bananas,” Isaac says and looks towards the shadows left by the slatted shades on the window. His cup hides the smirk growing on his face as he takes another lopsided slurp from his drink and Nate crunches particularly loud. 

“You’re just concerned about your old man health.”

“I’m forty-six.”

“One foot in the grave,” Nate jokes.

“Forty’s the new thirty. I read it in an old magazine.”

“Bullshit Weekly, yeah,” Nate laughs across the bar and waves his spoon. The milk splatters in a small drop onto the smooth counter and Isaac leans over to obsessively wipe at it with his knuckle. He doesn’t like it. “No, but really. I’m tired of this Raisin Bran crap.”

“Fine.”

“What about something like Rice Krispies. Those looked good.”

Isaac dead eyes him, cup already back on his mouth. He slurps and it sounds disgruntled.

“Cheerios.”

The slurping quiets.

They’re in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> nate should be dead. who gives a fuck.


End file.
